


Counterforce

by kangeiko



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e14 Ship of Tears, M/M, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 18:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: "So how did you find out about all of this?""I'm... a telepath. Work it out."-- Sheridan and Bester,Ship of TearsWherein Bester is not the only telepath in Psi Corps, and Garibaldi is swinging for the fences.





	Counterforce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



> I had so much fun writing this! Thank you Mimm for some great prompts and I hope that you enjoy this little treat fic. 
> 
> Thank you to stelleappese for fact-checking and cross-referencing, and a million thank yous to Morbane, who went above and beyond the call of beta duty in editing approximately 84 drafts of this. You are the best.

“I really hate being right,” Garibaldi muttered. Bester was holding his own - just - but his Starfury was outnumbered and outgunned. He wouldn’t last much longer.

Garibaldi’s hands twitched over the firing controls for a long moment before he sighed and patched in to the rest of the squadron. “Lay down covering fire. Get -” he hesitated infinitesimally. “Get our guy out of there.”

The Starfuries flanking him swooped into the fray, the rest of the squadron following. Bester took the hint and dove for cover behind them almost immediately.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the rescue, Babylon 5,” Bester said over the intercom, sounding breathless, “but how did you know to be here?”

“Call it a hunch,” Garibaldi said shortly. _I’m a telepath,_ Bester had said. _Work it out._ The problem was, so was every other snake in that pit. It stood to reason that the cabal who’d arranged selling telepaths to the Shadows - and had known enough to keep Bester out of it - would have kept an eye on him. How hard would it have been to place a tracker on his Starfury as he’d slipped away and then make sure it never reached Earth? They might even have blamed it on Babylon 5; it was their modus operandi, after all.

“How very industrious of you, Mr Garibaldi,” Bester murmured over the comm. “Much as it pains me to admit it, I appreciate the timely rescue. Very… gallant.”

_Ivanova’s gonna have a fit,_ Garibaldi thought. He felt all the nervous energy of being right suddenly resolve itself. _Well, hell._ He shook his head. Hadn’t he been thinking only recently on how they were living in the definition of ‘interesting times’? He might as well have hung up a sign inviting the universe to further complicate matters. “Welcome to the revolution, Mr Bester,” he said, smiling a little. “I appreciate you might have wanted to watch all the action from afar, but we don’t all get what we want. Besides,” he smirked, “You might enjoy it. The pay sucks, but you do get to be a white knight once in a while. I can explain the concept more slowly if you’re unfamiliar with the idea of not being the bad guy.”

Bester didn’t respond to that. His Starfury was still safely hidden behind Garibaldi’s, although maneuvering was clearly a problem, given the number of glancing blows he’d taken. Garibaldi was rather impressed he hadn’t ejected and taken his chances outside. That said, if he’d been taken alive by his Black Omega buddies, chances were he’d end up just like those poor mutilated teeps back in that ship. _Weapons components,_ Garibaldi thought uneasily, and shivered. Bester still hadn’t responded. After a moment, Garibaldi hailed him again. “Bester. You OK for the trip back?”

There was another, longer, pause. “Ah,” Bester said, and he sounded a touch more breathless than before, his speech slightly slurred. “Mr Garibaldi. About that.”

*

“Absolutely not!”

_Right on cue,_ Garibaldi thought. He and Franklin rounded the corner into the War Council chamber to see Sheridan and Ivanova at it, hammer and tongs. Sheridan looked exasperated while Ivanova looked ready to set the station on fire.

“You said he was fine!” Ivanova rounded on Franklin as if he was the cause of the world’s ills.

“I said he’s _going_ to be fine,” Franklin corrected, not the least bit perturbed at her outburst. “He has several broken ribs and a collapsed lung. He won’t be able to take any G-forces for re-entry or exit for a month or so, and that’s assuming he opts for a passenger ship. If he wants to fly out of here on his own, it’ll be even longer.”

Ivanova shot him an unimpressed look. “So, what, we’ve turned into a holiday camp in the meantime? ‘Come to Babylon 5, the rest home of the galaxy! Free food and board for any passing fascists!’ ”

“Ivanova -” Sheridan started.

“You know I’m right, John. He’s gonna screw us the first chance he gets.” She scowled at Garibaldi. “And what the hell are we supposed to do about him while he’s here? Let him wander about freely until he says he’s all better now? How do we know this isn’t some sort of double-bluff to get us to trust him so he can scan us?”

“I doubt even the Corps would be willing to let go of that many modified telepaths to plant a spy in our ranks, Susan,” Sheridan said wearily. “Besides, he didn’t scan you before and he was with me for hours on the White Star. I doubt he has anything left to ferret out that would require staying on board indefinitely.” He rubbed his forehead. “From what I can see, we have three options. We can turf him out, we can let him stay here, no questions asked… or we can drug him.” He glanced at Franklin questioningly. “ _Can_ we drug him?”

Franklin shrugged. “Theoretically, it’s perfectly possible. If he agrees to it - and once he’s off the worst of the painkillers - he can stay on the sleepers indefinitely. But...” Franklin frowned. “His ribcage is a mess, it’ll be a few days at least before it would be safe to dose him, even if he agrees to it.”

_If he agrees to it._ Well, that was pretty much that. Sheridan and Garibaldi exchanged glances. If Franklin’s intervention was dependent on Bester’s cooperation, there wasn’t much point even having that on the table. Bester had already been in close contact with Franklin and would probably have numerous more opportunities to scan him during the post-op period. There was no point in trying to bluff him when he already knew it was an empty threat.

_Besides,_ Garibaldi reasoned, _John’s right. What does he have to learn that he hasn’t learned already?_ No, even if they could convince Franklin to do it - and Garibaldi had significant doubts on that score - drugging Bester wouldn’t gain them anything other than make him a sitting duck if the Psi Corps chose to send anyone after him.

“How lucid is he?” Garibaldi asked abruptly. “If I spoke to him now, would he be able to scan me?”

Franklin looked surprised. “I have no idea. Why?”

“I have an idea.” Not much of one, but it was better than nothing.

*

“If you want to stay, you have to take the sleepers,” Garibaldi said without any preamble. “Otherwise we’ll keep you under until you’re ready to leave. That’s the deal.”

Bester blinked blearily up at him from his prone position on the MedLab bed. “All right,” he said, voice hoarse. “If you like.” He didn’t seem inclined to pay Garibaldi much attention; too busy contemplating his new existence as a reluctant revolutionary, Garibaldi supposed. _Or maybe seeing how things look when you’re the one being hunted down._ Well, it would doubtless do the bastard some good to learn some empathy.

There was an awkward pause. Garibaldi hadn’t expected Bester to be so compliant. Oh, he’d expected him to agree eventually - the man’s options were rather limited, after all - but his despondency was unexpected.

“No protests that you can’t help us if you’re on them?” Garibaldi asked eventually.

Bester shrugged, gesturing half-heartedly at the machine on the side of his MedLab bed, pulsing gently as it tracked the status of his re-inflated lung. “My friend and I won’t be going anywhere for a few days, and the morphine isn’t helping. After that, I won’t be on Babylon 5 long enough to need more than a couple of doses. I suspect that I shall somehow reconcile myself to walking amongst you mere mortals for a few days.” He glanced up at Garibaldi then, a touch of his customary dark humour back on his face. “That is, unless you intended to put me back in the brig. Then I confess that I don’t really see the point.”

“A couple of doses,” Garibaldi repeated, frowning. “That’s… two weeks?” He rolled his eyes at Bester’s nod. “You can’t leave in two weeks! You’ll pass out through acceleration.”

Bester eyed him from his supine position. “Your solicitude does you credit, Mr Garibaldi. I had no idea you were so invested in my continued well-being.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” Garibaldi muttered. “Look, we can’t just let you wander about. We don’t want you dead, but no one here trusts you not to stick a knife in our backs. So how about -”

“How about,” Bester interrupted, “we skip the rest of your script, Mr Garibaldi. I have a couple of errands I need to run while I’m here - some that I’ll share with you, some I won’t - but other than that, yes, I agree. You can confine me to quarters.” He shifted carefully on the bed. “I trust that the mattress will be more comfortable than this one, at any rate."

Garibaldi stared at him, nonplussed. _Right, well, he’s clearly more lucid than I’d hoped._ Franklin had warned him that the opiates would make Bester drowsy and his focus sporadic, but it looked like even at half-mast the bastard could read him easily. He’d intended to lay down the ultimatum, and to allow himself to be talked into house arrest for Bester. Access would be carefully regulated to a bare few individuals - himself included - who would limit their involvement in certain activities for the duration.

Ivanova had argued for more secure confinement, but Franklin had put his foot down. Apparently the brig smacked of false imprisonment, especially as Bester couldn’t leave the station until he healed. All it boiled down to was, half the War Council couldn’t talk to the other half.

Well, all right. Sometimes that’s the way ‘need to know’ worked. And if Bester turned out to be any use to them, it might even make the hassle worthwhile. “What errands?”

“Later.” Bester’s eyes fluttered closed, his breathing evening out.

“Bester -”

“I’m tired.” Bester’s lashes cast dark shadows on his cheeks, making him look even more exhausted than before.

Garibaldi was abruptly reminded of Bester kneeling over as Garibaldi had pulled him from the cockpit of his Starfury, pale-faced and clammy with shock. He’d hesitated, startled by the sight of Bester bleeding, at the evidence of his mortality. Franklin had elbowed him out of the way a moment later to get his patient onto the stretcher, and by the time Garibaldi had been able to shake off his surprise - and the strange disquiet which accompanied it - Bester had been whisked away. Garibaldi had been left standing in the Starfury docking bay, his flight-suit smeared with blood, Bester’s abandoned helmet lying on the deck.

They’d been lucky. A collapsed lung was easy enough to fix - if you got to the patient on time. They almost hadn’t. Bester had been blue with hypoxia by the time Garibaldi had reached him, inches away from brain damage from the oxygen deprivation and blood loss.

_Wouldn’t that have been something. To have him declare for us and die for it._

Garibaldi watched him sleep for another moment before he silently turned to leave.

*

“Well? How’d he take it?” Sheridan asked.

They’d reconvened back in his office, Ivanova looking more tight-lipped by the minute. “He’s agreed to be confined to quarters,” he said abruptly. “Barring a few exceptions.”

Ivanova rolled her eyes. “He’s naming terms now?”

“Oh, he was doing that before he even had his eyes open,” Garibaldi said with a wry smile. “But - well, he has a point. Look, if he heads back now, he’ll likely to be shot down before he’s even out of the jumpgate. He’ll need to contact his supporters, leverage whatever information he has, do whatever the hell else he needs to shore up his position before he takes a risk and exposes himself.” Kill whoever he needs to, he thought but did not say. Power plays within Psi Corps tended to result in dead rogues, and whoever had targeted Bester had also turned a hundred humans into machine parts; Garibaldi wouldn’t be shedding any tears if they met with an ‘accident’.

“I’m not sure how comfortable I am to have him use us as a base to ‘shore up his position,’” Sheridan grimaced, clearly thinking along the same lines. “You’ll keep an eye on him?”

“Trust me, I won’t be letting him out of my sight,” Garibaldi promised.

Ivanova shot him an odd look at that but said nothing.

“All right. Well, let’s see how it goes. If it doesn’t work out we can always -”

“Toss him out on his ear?”

“Revisit the issue,” Sheridan said smoothly, as if Ivanova hadn’t spoken.

“Look, the question is moot for a while anyway,” said Franklin. “He’ll be hooked up to the machines for a day or so and then restricted to quarters - for medical reasons - until his ribcage knits together.”

_A few weeks,_ Garibaldi thought, considering it. Well, Bester might choose to leave the moment he was physically able to withstand it. It was more likely, though, that he’d take the time to get all his assets - people and information - arrayed properly, rather than risking a trap. It was what Garibaldi would do in his shoes, and for all the man’s numerous faults, he had decent instincts when it came to his self-preservation.

In the meantime, could they capitalise on the opportunity of having Bester temporarily dependent on their goodwill? Garibaldi was tempted to try. It was a big prize, after all; bringing Bester across would give them access to a lot more Earthside intelligence. Of course, history was littered with the corpses of those who had bitten off more than they could chew, and Garibaldi had no desire to add his name to that list. They wouldn’t win Bester across on ideology, or politics, or - God forbid - sentiment. No, it would be cold, hard practicality that would carry the day. If they wanted an alliance, they’d have to make it worth his while. _And avoid getting screwed in the process._

Ivanova was silent for a long moment. “The enemy of my enemy.” She shook her head again, staring at him. There was something intent in her gaze, beyond uneasiness over the situation. “This war has given us a hell of a strange bedfellow. I hope you know what you’re doing, Michael.”

Garibaldi had to grin at that. “Well. I wouldn’t go that far.”

*

Bester was still pretty out of it when Garibaldi went back later that evening. He’d been moved into an area further away from the operating theatre, and the privacy screens indicating a bed-bound patient had been erected around him again.

He was pale and drawn against the MedLab bed, wearing the grey-blue gown of MedLab patients, loosely gathered to one side and clipped in place. His clothes were a folded - and laundered - pile beneath the bed, his boots polished.

Garibaldi was struck again by the incongruity. Someone had done that for him as well when he’d been shot: fetched clothes from his quarters, polished his boots. He’d assumed that Stephen had done it, maybe, or possibly Lou. But maybe it was the MedLab orderlies who tidied up the detritus of the patients they dealt with.

It wasn’t that he’d want Bester dressed in his bloodied uniform, of course. He just wasn’t sure why the image of a MedLab orderly polishing Bester’s tall black boots seemed so unsettling. He shook his head and rapped smartly on the wall. “You up for visitors?”

“Not especially.” Bester looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading. “But I suspect that won’t deter you.”

Bester clearly expected him to look his fill, so he did, top to toe and back again, skipping over the awkward clips of the gown that bunched over the machine cables and other monitors still attached to Bester. His grip on the newspaper was strange as well, one of the fingers in a slimline splint. Garibaldi hadn’t even noticed that the last time he’d been here. Or maybe Bester’s hands had been out of sight then? He was sure he’d have remembered seeing them bare before. He averted his gaze from the sight of those pale fingers, feeling oddly as if he’d seen something private. “Good guess. Anything interesting in there?”

Bester shrugged a little. “The print media went before ISN, and you’ve been cut off for several months, now. What do you think?”

“I think if you’re bored enough to be reading months-old newspapers, then you’re probably a little more pleased to see me than you let on.”

For a moment Bester said nothing, then the strangest look came over his face. “Ah,” he said softly. “What an interesting idea.”

Garibaldi breathed out slowly and very deliberately did not tense up. It had been strange to see Bester so vulnerable, to feel the shock of having his hands on him when the man was normally buttoned up tight. He hadn’t dwelt on it overly much, he didn’t think, and certainly not more than he had on the thought of having a resource like Bester to draw on. But he couldn’t be sure what Bester had seen when he’d looked at him, or which thought would be less welcome. “Which one?”

“Any of them. All of them. Quite impossible, of course. But interesting.”

_That’s one way of putting it, sure._ Garibaldi swept his eyes across MedLab, from the gently pulsing machine still attached to the bed, to the sterile partition separating the room from the rest of MedLab, to the blank hospital walls flanking it. “Well. I can see that you have so many alternate options to amuse you during your convalescence, after all.”

“Oh,” Bester said, and his voice was very quiet and very amused, “you’d be surprised. But you think you have a better alternative for me.”

Garibaldi dragged one of the chairs across and sat down opposite Bester. “You know I do. And you know it’s the smart thing to do.”

Bester studied him for a long moment and Garibaldi fought the urge to shiver. The bastard was probably scanning him now, even in his drug-induced haze.

“Yes. I am. I think I have a right to, considering what you’re asking of me.” Bester thumbed the remote control levering the bed upright at the midpoint, so he was facing Garibaldi almost head-on rather than reclining. “You know, for people who last time insisted that I be drugged before you’d even let me on board - and for someone who put me in the brig not even two days ago - you’re being awfully forward. I’ve just lost everything that matters to me, and you’re - what? Looking to adopt me into the warm bosom of your friendship out of the goodness of your heart?” He snorted. “Out of morality, perhaps? Or maybe because you were thinking, even then, _if we could recruit him to our cause, what a weapon he’d be._ ” He smiled, wafer-thin. “And I should be grateful, should I, for your hypocrisy on this? To lecture me on morality all the while you were hoping I’d hit rock bottom so you could recruit me. Tut, tut, Mr Garibaldi. This underhanded approach... If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had designs on my virtue.” One corner of his mouth curled and his smile turned softer, deadlier. “Is that it?”

“I -“ Garibaldi hesitated, caught. “No. That’s not it,” he said carefully. He tried to marshal his thoughts into some kind of order, painfully aware that they were probably on display. He focused on the mutuality of it; they’d both stand to gain from working together a bit more effectively. “I think we could -”

An image swam to the front of Garibaldi’s mind, sudden and unbidden: Bester, sprawled in his arms, Garibaldi’s hands against his shattered side. Even when the bastard had been bleeding out, Garibaldi had thought - ridiculously - _I’ll never know, now._ As if Bester’s entire existence was there to satisfy his curiosity. Bester’s pale face had been upturned, blood smeared across his mouth, his body lax.

Garibaldi shuddered, taking a step back.

Bester’s lips twitched, as if fighting a smile. “Work well together?” he suggested.

Garibaldi stared at him, feeling the blood drain from his face.

He didn’t think Bester had caught it. No - that wasn’t quite true. He _hoped_ he hadn’t; hoped his luck had held out. It hadn’t been the only time he’d thought along those lines, of course. Bester would be the worst choice to think about in that fashion, so of course it had to happen. Garibaldi had long ago reconciled himself to the truth that he was a master of finding just the worst possible choice and committing to it wholeheartedly.

He wasn’t sure when it had started. When Bester had scanned him during the Ironheart debacle, he didn’t think there had been anything like… this… to scan. Oh, the usual secrets and resentments, sure, but nothing he wouldn’t have said aloud if pressed to it.

Somewhere along the line, something had changed.

Garibaldi had rather hoped that the polite fiction could be maintained for longer. Bester wouldn’t confront him, and Garibaldi would do his damnedest to think about pink elephants for the duration of his stay. It was the bare minimum of decency, wasn’t it?

He hadn’t expected Bester to drag it out, front and centre, like a carcass ready for mauling. The bastard had probably worked it out even without the benefit of telepathy.

The sleepers had left Bester defenceless, or so Garibaldi had thought. Why had he assumed that Bester relied on his telepathy as an all-encompassing crutch? It was not like him to underestimate people, and it chafed him that he had managed it with someone who was this big a threat. Bester could probably scan him even with the opiates. He could -

“I don’t need to scan you,” Bester said in that same soft voice, his expression gentling somewhat. “You shout quite loudly, did you know that? I don’t need line of sight with you, Mr Garibaldi. Not with you turning each conversation over and over in your head, muddled so much that you can’t decide whether you’re rescuing me or taking advantage of a temporary vulnerability. Not when your thoughts are full of _those_ images.” He tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “I only said that in jest, to unsettle you. I didn't quite anticipate it landing that well.”

Garibaldi closed his eyes for a brief moment, mortified beyond words and rattled out of his earlier preparation. “Sorry,” he managed. “I didn’t - sorry.” He swallowed. He’d never thought to apologise for anything like that before, although he wondered, suddenly, if he should have. If it happened often; if all telepaths felt it. If he was still shouting his every thought at Bester while the man was too drugged to protest.

He forced his mind back to what he’d planned to say, conscious that Bester was still drugged to the eyeballs and was softer and more pliant than he’d ever be in his right mind. His hair was mussed and his eyes still bruised through lack of sleep, and someone - _God_ \- someone had removed his gloves, leaving them neatly folded on top of the softly pulsing monitor. Garibaldi’s eyes were drawn back to the bare hands resting on Bester’s abdomen. He stared, feeling off-balance. Telepaths didn’t take their gloves off, ever.

“No,” Bester agreed wryly, following his gaze. “But they needed to re-set a broken finger. So I suppose I shall bear it, at least for the next few hours.” He glanced at the gloves on the monitor. “You’re not the first person to fixate on them,” he mused. His mouth was still curled in that small smile. He didn’t look harassed. He looked _amused._ “It’s often a - a fetish, if you like, for those in the Corps. The gloves.” The fingers of his bare hand fluttered for a brief moment, drawing Garibaldi’s eyes to them. “What’s beneath them.”

“You know, for a man purporting to be scandalised,” Garibaldi said slowly, “you seem to like the subject a great deal.” He let his gaze settle on Bester’s hands, looking his fill and feeling again that frisson that told him he was seeing something private. _The bastard did it on purpose._ He’d had his hands covered before, Garibaldi was almost sure of it. Bester had bared them deliberately this time, knowing Garibaldi’s likely reaction to the thought of skin-to-skin contact with a telepath. Well, he wasn’t wrong. Garibaldi had to give him that, at least. If ever there was someone who played with absolutely _every_ weapon in his arsenal…

He lifted his eyes to Bester’s. “I’m not gonna pretend like we’re doing this for your benefit. I frankly couldn’t care less whether the whole lot of you butcher each other.”

“How thoughtful,” Bester interjected, voice sharp.

“ _That being said,_ ” Garibaldi continued, then paused. “Well. Better the devil we know.”

“Your sentimentality is overwhelming.” Bester’s mouth quirked. “Was that the extent of your appeal? ‘We don’t hate you quite as much as we hate the others?’”

“Not quite.” He hesitated. “You know why the Shadows didn’t attack the White Star.”

A peculiar look came over Bester’s face. “I - yes.”

_Interesting._ That meant he probably hadn’t, until Garibaldi had thought it while looking straight at him. Maybe he really _was_ still out of it. “The cabal in Psi Corps is going to continue supplying the Shadows with telepaths. Aren’t they.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Bester said softly. “They will continue, unless I get back to Mars and stop them. And here you are, willing to use that _marvellous_ opportunity to your benefit. What a happy accident this must all be for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Garibaldi defended, feeling his hackles rise at the accusation. “And for the record, your righteous indignation would count for a hell of a lot more if your hands weren’t quite so bloody!”

“No?” Bester tilted his head thoughtfully. “You weren’t about to follow up with several excellent opportunities for us to collaborate while I ‘happen’ to be here?” He smiled, showing teeth. “Please, do continue with your bluster, Mr Garibaldi. I’m interested in how far you’re willing to let this little analogy continue. You yourself are blameless, of course. You wouldn’t dream of asking my people to sacrifice themselves for you. Oh - my mistake.” His smile widened. “That _is_ what we were gearing up to, yes? You don’t just want Earthside intelligence, or my cooperation for your little revolution. You want me to send any rogues I apprehend your way, to serve as shields against the Shadows. How… noble.”

Garibaldi grit his teeth, trying not to let his anger get the better of him. He hadn’t actually planned to ask that - at least not yet - intending to ask Bester for intelligence only. Then, later, once they’d had a chance to test his theory about telepaths blocking the Shadows, _then_ he could have contacted Bester and... “It’s more than Carolyn was offered. You think she would have wanted you to lie down and let her -” And then nothing else would come out of his mouth, because Bester’s eyes had narrowed and Garibaldi’s voice would no longer obey him.

“You don’t know anything about what she would have wanted. What she’d _want_ -” and Bester did look stricken then, the slip turning him even paler against the grey-blue of the MedLab linens. “You -” His mouth was a thin line, his eyes dark and wide.

Garibaldi held up his hands, feeling the compulsion over his throat ease at the gesture. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that.” He hesitated for another moment. “You don’t have to decide anything now. Hell, I might turn out to be wrong; stranger things have happened. But if I _am_ right…” He hesitated again. He couldn’t think of a way to phrase it that might be acceptable to Bester, that wouldn’t offend his sense of telepath superiority and convoluted loyalties.

Bester closed his eyes briefly. When he looked back at Garibaldi, his gaze was dark. “I will think about your proposal, Mr Garibaldi. If nothing else, it is certainly brazen enough to merit consideration.”

Garibaldi nodded, recognising the concession for what it was. There would be no use in pushing Bester any further on this until he’d had a chance to think things through himself. _Surely we’re due a break,_ Garibaldi thought, weary. _Come on, you bastard._ If he could get Bester to agree to even a fraction of what he was proposing, then...

Bester was still watching him with that same speculative gaze as he got up to leave, as if sizing him up for a noose.

*

Garibaldi slept badly, his dreams jumbled and disordered, waking up to the feeling of his heart hammering in his ribs. He couldn’t remember what he’d dreamed, only that something had gone very wrong and it had terrified him to the point of wakefulness. By the time he’d dragged himself out of bed and had a quick shower, he was already running five minutes late for the start of his shift.

“Geez, Chief. Are you all right? You don’t look so good.” Zack frowned at him, looking up from the overnight report.

“I’m fine, Zack. Just woke on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all. Is that the overnighter?”

He spent the morning doing all the things he hated most about the job - the detainee spot inspections, the complaints review, the requisitions list - before lunchtime rolled around and he admitted to himself that maybe he’d been waiting for enough time to pass before he could justify wandering down to MedLab again. _Don’t push him,_ he thought, working through all the permutations of Bester’s reaction. Who knew; Bester might have slept on it and decided that Garibaldi’s suggestions were so sensible that he’d adopt them wholesale. _Sure. That could happen. It’s about as likely as Londo and G’Kar eloping, but it could happen._

No, the best thing to do would be to let the ideas percolate and focus on making sure Bester didn’t choose to take this opportunity to sell them out.

By the time he got to MedLab, the privacy screens were drawn back and the monitors were turned off. The clothes beneath the bed - the folded turtleneck and pants, and the tall black boots - were missing. Only the black jacket remained, discarded on the side. “Where is he?”

Dr Hobbes nodded towards the cryo storage facilities at the back of the complex. “He should have still been confined to bed, but he insisted.”

_Great._

“Someone will collect him in ten minutes,” Dr Hobbes said. She raised an eyebrow at his obvious indecision. “Or we could fetch him now?”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll do it.”

Inside the cryo storage area, Bester sat on a stool beside the furthermost bank of storage capsules. The majority of the rescued telepaths were inside the station’s long-term storage facilities - ordinarily intended for the preservation of the deceased - but Carolyn Sanderson and a few others had been stored inside MedLab’s own cryotubes. Bester had a hand resting on the door of one of the units; Carolyn’s, Garibaldi presumed.

“Bester.”

He stirred, not turning. “I thought I had a few more minutes.”

“You do,” Garibaldi admitted. “I figured I could sit with you.”

“Checking on your investment?” The smile Bester shot him was razor-thin. “As you can see, I survived the night.”

Garibaldi did not answer, looking him over carefully. It was too early for Bester to be upright, and it showed: deep blue shadows were smudged beneath his eyes and there was a strange frailty to him that startled Garibaldi. Even when Bester had been bleeding out, he hadn’t seen _this_ before, this incongruous vulnerability. No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Bester had had that same look when Garibaldi had mentioned Carolyn earlier. He’d -

“Please be quiet,” Bester murmured, no louder than a whisper. He sounded pained. “I cannot hear myself _think._ ” He raised his clenched, gloved hand and pressed it against his temple, his eyes closing in a gesture of infinite weariness. His other hand was bare, pressed against the cool metal of the cryotube. After a moment, he took the hand away and straightened, sliding the glove back on with his teeth in a practiced gesture. “All right,” Bester said, and carefully stood up, his face bone-white with effort. He took one step; two. He was favouring his left side, listing gently with every step.

_He’s not going to make it,_ Garibaldi thought, watching him falter. He reached out without volition, catching Bester’s gloved hand in his and wrapping an arm around Bester’s waist to steady him. Bester, tellingly, did not protest, letting Garibaldi bear his weight as he walked carefully back to the bed. His breath rattled ominously.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Garibaldi said, easing him back on the bed. It was tilted so that Bester was almost sitting up, easing the pressure on his lungs. “They could have taken you there in a wheelchair, if you’d wanted.”

Bester laughed a little at that. It sounded like it hurt. “Yes. I’m sure they could have.” He closed his eyes. “Did you want something, Mr Garibaldi?”

Garibaldi hesitated. “No. I was just - no.”

Bester nodded, his eyes still closed. The effort to walk that short distance had clearly exhausted him. He was quiet for several minutes as his breathing evened out. Eventually a little of his colour came back and he looked at Garibaldi with some interest. “You were just visiting?” he asked. “Or - something else?”

There was no right answer to that. “I - why are you dressed?”

Bester’s mouth quirked at that, amused. “Because Dr Hobbes has agreed to discharge me to bed rest, if I can manage a ten minute walk. And because I like the idea of walking these corridors in a hospital gown even less than I like the idea of a wheelchair.”

The turtleneck would have been painful - and awkward - to put on with busted ribs, Garibaldi thought. He wondered if one of the nurses had helped Bester with it, or if the stubborn bastard had managed on his own. His gaze was drawn involuntarily to the black jacket lying discarded on one side.

The worst part about being shot, Garibaldi had thought - other than the whole being betrayed and shot in the back thing, obviously - was being stuck inside MedLab. Franklin had done his best, but it had taken weeks before Garibaldi had been able to get back on his feet. By the end, he’d counted all the ceiling tiles, read all the reports, and gone over the shooting countless times in his head.

“I’m not you,” Bester reminded him softly. He levered himself up and slid to his feet, bracing against the bed for a moment. “Was that all?” He sounded breathless again.

_No. You’re not me. But you’re not quite as ruthless as you’d like to pretend either, are you?_ The image of Bester’s bare hand against the metal of the cryotube flashed into his mind, Bester’s face as pale as it had been in the wreckage of his Starfury.

Garibaldi hesitated for a moment, then waved a hand towards the MedLab exit. “Come on. I’ll walk with you. Ten minutes, you said?”

Bester stared at him, genuine surprise on his face. Whatever he saw in Garibaldi seemed to reassure him. He nodded.

MedLab’s entrances and exits had been designed with stretchers in mind; there were no steps or steep inclines throughout this section of Blue 2. They picked their way along the corridor, following the slight curve as it ringed the outside of MedLab and took them out towards the docking bays. There were very few people along the way and Garibaldi was glad for the privacy as the physical strain of the few hundred yards involved seemed almost too much for Bester. By the halfway point his face was flushed with the effort. “Are you all right for the walk back?” Garibaldi asked, watching him carefully.

“Fine,” Bester said, his voice tight, his fist clenched. The strain was evident on his face as they retraced their steps. By the time they reached the MedLab doors, Bester had lost his earlier flush of colour and was pale as a ghost.

“Ten minutes?” Dr Hobbes asked as they finally made it back inside. She raised an eyebrow skeptically at his nod, sliding an arm beneath Bester’s and guiding him to a seat. “Your quarters are probably further away than that.” Her gaze flickered to Garibaldi.

“I will be fine,” Bester managed. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly. “Unless Mr Garibaldi has seen fit to quarter me in Grey sector, I can manage the walk. I would rather be confined there than here, doctor, if it’s all the same to you.”

Garibaldi said nothing to that. He’d arranged for Bester to be quartered in Blue 14; sufficiently away from the command staff quarters to prevent any eavesdropping, but close enough to MedLab if Bester’s condition deteriorated. For a healthy person, Blue 14 was maybe a fifteen minute walk. For Bester…

“I’ll walk with him,” he told Dr Hobbes abruptly. He glanced across at Bester, who still had his eyes closed. “If you’re happy to release him, that is.”

She frowned. “I’d rather you waited an extra day, Mr Bester. But I understand that being surrounded by so many people is a strain. I will discharge you -” she looked at Garibaldi warningly, “- on the understanding that, should your condition deteriorate, we will need to confine you to MedLab.”

“Agreed,” Bester said. He opened his eyes and looked across at Garibaldi. “If the offer of an escort is still open, Mr Garibaldi,” he said faintly, “I’d like to go to my quarters, now.”

Garibaldi slung Bester’s discarded jacket over his arm and helped Bester to his feet, easing him upright. “All right. Let’s go.”

He could feel Bester trembling as they exited the MedLab, each step careful and torturously slow. Dr Hobbes had given Bester one week’s supply of painkillers, and one of the MedLab doctors would stop by the next morning to check on his progress. All Garibaldi had to do was get him to his quarters and make sure that he didn’t pass out on the way.

“You could have waited the extra day,” he said quietly.

“No, I couldn’t. There are twelve patients in MedLab One, none of them particularly quiet. Even with the privacy screens it was impossible to block them out entirely.” Bester was silent for a moment. “It was… difficult.”

_What does… oh._ It suddenly made sense. If Bester was unable to block normally due to the painkillers, then being surrounded by people in pain would likely not be the best environment for him. His urgency to get out of MedLab made a lot more practical sense.

Bester managed a smile at him, evidently having caught that last thought. “Even I do not nurse my pride _that_ much, Mr Garibaldi,” he murmured. “I have no desire to delay my recovery.” He didn’t seem to have any breath left for anything else and simply focused on walking.

By the time they reached the door, Bester was shaking with the strain. _I should have made him accept the wheelchair,_ Garibaldi thought, but it didn’t hold any conviction. He knew Bester would never have agreed. “We’re nearly there,” he said instead, sliding an arm around Bester’s waist to support him through those final few steps. Once they reach the door he unlocked the quarters and maneuvered Bester inside gently, guiding him to a chair. _He needs to drink some water,_ he thought. _He’s probably dehydrated._ “You OK?” Garibaldi asked, a little concerned.

“Some water would be welcome,” Bester said faintly.

Garibaldi nodded and left him to catch his breath, fetching a glass of water from the kitchenette and setting it beside Bester. He got himself a glass as well and drank it at the sink with his back turned, giving the man a modicum of privacy. He’d need to arrange for some practical assistance in the short term, of course. Food deliveries and suchlike, a change of clothes maybe. Bester couldn’t sleep in his uniform, after all, and it would be churlish to deny him basic necessities during his recovery.

He busied himself with the practicalities of it all for a while, making sure that maintenance hadn’t missed anything when they’d been setting up the quarters. Eventually, he ran out of things to check and stilled in front of the sink. “Are you hungry?” he called out, his back still turned. “I can get a delivery set up while I’m here.” _I should go,_ he thought. _He’s here, I’ve done everything I need to. I should go and let him get to bed._ His hands gripped the edge of the worktop, knuckle-white.

“Maybe later,” Bester said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Garibaldi turned at that, startled, to find Bester on his feet a few steps away, looking at Garibaldi with a strange look in his eyes. Some of the colour had come back to his face, Garibaldi noted clinically. He’d also finished his water, the glass sitting abandoned on the small table. “Did you want some more water?” he asked. He felt his face heat at the look in Bester’s eyes. “Or -”

“No,” Bester said, and his mouth curled. “No, you’ve been very helpful. Very… kind.” He stepped forward, amusement flaring as Garibaldi reflexively retreated in response. “Did _you_ want something, Mr Garibaldi?”

“I - no. I -”

“I only ask,” Bester went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “because you have been _so_ solicitous. It’s quite… charming.” He put one hand on the kitchenette worktop to brace himself as he took another step forward.

There was still some of the earlier exhaustion in Bester’s face, in the tightness of the skin around his eyes and in the shadows beneath them. But there was something else there as well, something in the way he looked up at Garibaldi, his eyes wide and dark, his face flushed. He was still listing gently, even braced as he was against the edge of the worktop, and Garibaldi’s arms went out automatically to catch him; one hand on Bester’s waist, the other on the junction of neck and shoulder.

“You really are quite remarkable,” Bester murmured. He didn’t move away, standing in the circle of Garibaldi’s arms, dark eyes glittering strangely.

His skin, Garibaldi suddenly realised. He was -

He stared at the hand he still had on Bester’s shoulder, the thin fabric twisted by the motion of his fingers. One fingertip was resting gently against the soft, heated skin at Bester’s neck.

_Oh,_ Garibaldi thought, helpless, unable to look away as Bester reached up a hand to pull him down.

*

fin

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Locations: Med Lab 1 is in Blue 2. Blue sector houses - among other things - C&C, station personnel quarters, Security Command, and the docking bays. The Starfury Cobra bays are between Red and Blue sectors. Blue 14 was where Talia's quarters were situated, and I put Bester there on the assumption that they would be far enough from the main command staff that they wouldn't just 'run into' each other, but would be easy enough to access when required.  
> 2) Telepaths and blocking: blocking is an effort (as per Byron's comments to Garibaldi in S5, some of which I stole wholesale for this), so a drugged telepath would likely struggle to have effective shields in place. Staying in a crowded place full of people in pain or in distress would probably be incredibly draining.  
> 3) The title is a reference to [counterforce doctrine](https://www.britannica.com/topic/counterforce-doctrine) in nuclear war.


End file.
